Hormonal
by Nirav
Summary: Or, How Quinn Fabray Learned to Stop Worrying and Embrace the Horny. In which Quinn ponders the worst part of being pregnant.


Quinn couldn't decide what the worst thing about being pregnant was. Her instinct was to say that, obviously, getting kicked out by her family topped the list, but the annoyingly honest and sardonic part of her mind put the kibosh on that; it was no surprise that they had reacted as harshly as they did, and while it sucked sleeping in Puck's bed while he took the couch, and while it was ridiculously awkward at times, at least at the Puckerman house she was treated like a person instead of a possession. So, no, that wasn't the worst.

The morning sickness was close to the top, too. Especially sneaky ninja-like morning sickness that swooped in at any time of day and sent her ricocheting down hallways to find a bathroom. Quinn was no stranger to throwing up, having pushed herself through far too many of Sue Sylvester's workouts of doom, but that hardly made a difference when her throat burned from stomach acid that wouldn't stay in her stomach; or when she discovered that, as comforting and tasty as chamomile tea may be going down, it was anything but when it came back up. She went through ungodly amounts of gum every day just trying to keep from having puke-breath, and became unnervingly talented at throwing up neatly after ruining one of her favorite pairs of shoes.

But the sneaky ninja morning sickness passed, so that probably wouldn't be the worst thing.

Then there was the fact that she felt like a tank. And not in a heroic, powerful, remotely positive kind of way. It was more of an oh-my-God-I-look-like-the-Goodyear-Blimp kind of way. She had always been active and athletic, always in complete control of her limbs and her body. Even when she pushed her body through hell to achieve the thin standard Coach Sylvester insisted on, she was strong and nimble and light on her feet. Now, though, she practically _waddled_. And really, there was nothing positive about waddling. Waddling was only cute on penguins, and Quinn Fabray was most definitely not a penguin.

Yet even feeling like an awkward Clydesdale with a beer gut wasn't the worst, not really. As big as she got, she was distantly aware of the fact that she was still pretty, and she managed the weight as best she could. So that wouldn't be the worst.

No, it wasn't the almost-homeless status, or the nausea, or her blimp-like appearance that was the worst thing about being pregnant. Nor was it the swollen ankles, not being able to see her feet, or the odd cravings for avocado and blackberry jam sandwiches.

Certainly, she thought angrily, it was the hormones. She'd always had hormones—as much as she'd denied the pull in her stomach when Finn had kissed her just right, or when Puck had been at her house cleaning her parents' pool without a shirt; she _was_ a teenage girl, after all—but she'd been pretty much the queen of the universe when it came to controlling them.

(She conveniently ignored the fact that she'd given in to them once and blamed that entire situation entirely on the wonderfully fruity taste of wine coolers.)

But now that the morning sickness had passed, she was absolutely swamped by hormones. It was exhausting, and she wondered if this was what boys her age felt like all the time; if it was, she was suddenly far, far more sympathetic to Finn and his need to think of mailmen. Her entire body felt like one huge raw nerve, with every brush of someone else's skin sending her rocketing into a trembling mess of hormones. Brittany handing her a pencil in Spanish class made her want to latch onto the other girl's neck and throw her onto a table and just go to _town_ on her.

Glee club only made it worse. Objectively, she could acknowledge that a good portion of the members were attractive (not that she would ever admit such things out loud), but what really got her was that they could all _sing_. She didn't know when it was that she'd realized that she was possibly more turned on by a strong singing voice than toned arms and good hair, but it felt like it had always been a factor. She had known Finn could sing before she ever decided that he was going to be the McKinley king to her queen, and she'd struggled to control her hormones more when she heard him singing in the car than when he kissed her.

Now she was a blimp-like mess of pregnancy hormones, and sitting in glee club rehearsals listening to Finn belt out a solo had her crossing and re-crossing her legs constantly, cheeks flushing at the heat pooling low in her stomach.

Puck didn't help matters, either. She'd always harbored a stronger physical attraction to him than to Finn—there was something about the smirk and the mohawk that made her ache in all the right places—but at night when she was sitting in the Puckerman's living room trying to do her homework and he was doing whatever handywork was needed around the house and singing quietly along to whatever was playing on his iPod, she had to actively force herself not to drag him upstairs and do all sorts of deliciously unsavory things to him.

Then there was Santana, who had a sultry voice that sounded twice her age and made Quinn forget that they were best friends/mortal enemies depending on the time of day, and made her want to grab a handful of that scratchy red polyester uniform and drag her into an abandoned classroom to see how sultry and mature her fingers were. Every time Quinn felt such an urge, she hated herself a little more, because frankly, one should not feel such things for their best friend, especially when said best friend was banging their other friend regularly.

Fat lot of good such reprimands did her, though. Santana never took the spotlight in glee, but Quinn could always hear her voice distinctly, and too many times she had to excuse herself so she could go… erm, _collect_ herself in an empty bathroom.

She wanted to hate Jessie St. James and his stupid eyebrows and Rachel Berry I'm-a-star attitude, but the first time he opened his mouth to sing in rehearsal, she was pretty sure her jaw dropped and her cheeks burned and she dug her fingernails into the bare skin above her knees as she crossed her legs tightly. Even with his stupidly awesome hair and ridiculous eyebrows and arrogance and _totally_ being a spy, every time he sang Quinn immediately wanted him on top of her.

And then… then there was Rachel. Rachel Berry, with her pantsuits and furry animal sweaters and obsessive personality, with her sparkly eyes and super shiny hair and absolutely _ridiculous_ voice. Quinn wanted to hate Rachel more than she wanted to hate Jessie—and she had plenty of reasons to hate the other girl, for sure—but every time she talked herself into it, Rachel would sing and Quinn's entire body would feel like it was vibrating and she would feel perverted and disgusting and wonderful and like she needed a _long_ cold shower. How such a huge voice fit into someone so tiny was beyond Quinn, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was that she—along with the rest of the world—knew that Rachel Berry had years of diction training and the lungs to support that voice, and she couldn't stop thinking about how handy such skills could be to a hormone-addled pregnant girl like herself.

Quinn was pretty sure that the worst thing about being pregnant was the hormones. But then again, it didn't seem so bad at the moment, with her head thrown back against the lockers in the empty locker room and her eyes shut and breath coming heavily, her fingers struggling for purchase against the shoulders of Rachel's stupid sweater and Rachel's lung capacity and years of diction training making Quinn care _not at all_ about how many levels of wrong this was because oh _God_ nothing had ever felt this good before.

Maybe—just maybe—the morning sickness actually was the worst part of being pregnant.


End file.
